I'm not sure what happened.
I had a kidlet.
I also blogged.
Two years later, I still have a kidlet.
I have not blogged.
At all. (But, you should see me zing on Facebook!)
Looking back at the last handful of posts I managed to make in my bleary-eyed, new mama stage, I didn't even recognize the words, the voice, or even some of the witty shit that was typed. I've been gone too long.
The good thing is that I don't think anyone pays attention to this blog - so I can really get away with writing anything that I want.
Wait. I do that anyway.
So. . . let's not beat around the bush, let me give you a peek into the life of a Mama of a Spitfire child:
My child, who is too wise and too tall for his meager 2 1/2 years, followed me into the kitchen from the garage.
Kidlet: Mama. Will you take my shoes off?
Me: I can't right now. You can take them off, I have to put away the groceries.
Kidlet: Mama, I want YOU to take them off.
Me: I can't right now. (Continued putting away groceries.)
Kidlet: (More animated now.) Mama! TAKE. MY. SHOES. OFF.
Me: Okay. You open the straps and I will take them off.
Kidlet: No! YOU TAKE THEM OFF!
So, I leaned down and took his hand and placed it on the back of his shoe while I slid the shoe off with my other hand. . . thereby launching the more ginormous, eat-shit-and-die, broken-hearted, sob fest that I have ever seen. I sent him to the living room stairs to calm down and offered to talk to him about it when he was calm.
**10 minutes later**
Kidlet: (Head peering out around the corner) Mama. I'm ready to talk about it now.
Me: Okay. Come on into the kitchen.
Kidlet: Will you please put my shoes on?
Me: Sure. (Putting him on the counter and pulling on both shoes.) Maybe we can go outside and play now?
I am not exaggerating or kidding when I say that this little punk then looked me in the eyes and said, "Now, you take them off by yourself."
. . . . OMGWTFBBQ?
For those of you who are still reading and NOT laughing at my expense, he was pretty upset when I then told him that I wouldn't do it - but then we both compromised as he opened the straps and I removed the shoes.
Seriously. My baby is a Spitfire.
And he came by that honestly.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Thursday, May 8, 2014
THE TRICKLE DOWN EFFECT.
I used to change my underwear frequently. Perhaps three times a day - or whenever necessary. I didn't "shred" them, if that is what you are thinking. But, I sure did make like a boy dog on a walk. . . and peed. A lot.
When I became un-pregnant, I figured it would wane. I thought that it would slow down and eventually go out without a bang. And, I was right. Until two days ago. . . when I sneezed and managed to squeeze out a large drop.
It felt like quite a bit made it past the floodgates, but somehow, miraculously, my underwear was saved. I was actually ready to go commanda (that's the feminine version of "commando".) So, you might ask, where did the flow go? Was it actually so hot out that it immediately evaporated upon exit from my body? Am I lying and I actually wet my pants? Could I have pushed out a puddle and quickly reabsorbed it?
I have no idea. But, wherever it went, I hope it stays there. I'm just glad it didn't force me to "lose" my underwear in a public bathroom.
When I became un-pregnant, I figured it would wane. I thought that it would slow down and eventually go out without a bang. And, I was right. Until two days ago. . . when I sneezed and managed to squeeze out a large drop.
It felt like quite a bit made it past the floodgates, but somehow, miraculously, my underwear was saved. I was actually ready to go commanda (that's the feminine version of "commando".) So, you might ask, where did the flow go? Was it actually so hot out that it immediately evaporated upon exit from my body? Am I lying and I actually wet my pants? Could I have pushed out a puddle and quickly reabsorbed it?
I have no idea. But, wherever it went, I hope it stays there. I'm just glad it didn't force me to "lose" my underwear in a public bathroom.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
FLYING TIMES.
Today, the Hub and I took Baby J to the Air Show. The Blue Angels were performing and I really needed a funnel cake. It was hot but breezy. We used copious amounts of sunblock. On the baby. Also, a SPF 50 hat. On the baby. Let's not also forget the noise cancelling ear protection. For the baby.
In the end, Baby J seemed to enjoy the day outside as much as Hub and I enjoyed the nearly obscene people-watching. Apparently, when it comes to shorts, "high waisted" also means "camel toe." I just need to say this. . .
When your child is capable of walking long distances while easily "keeping up" with the adults in your group, s/he probably doesn't belong in a stroller. At all.
This is doubly so when your child's legs are so long that their feet constantly drag under the front wheels. You can't even be mad at your kid for this. It's not like they ran over something and stopped the flow of traffic. No. YOU ran over your kid. Ugh.
Reconsider your use of a stroller. You look as suspect as those parents who tell themselves that "it's a backpack" rather than a leash attached to shoulder straps. Really.
Meanwhile, I am not an innocent of stupidity. The Hub and I are completely sunburned. I'm talking about my hair-part, face, forearms (GREAT start to this year's farmer tan!), and the backs of my legs. Basically, I look like the new girl at the make-up counter got at me with a handful of blusher, I am a married Indian woman with a Sindoor (go "google" it, lazy-pants!), with 3/4 red gloves on my arms, and some really ill-fitting leg-warmers. Hooray. So much for leading by example.
In the end, Baby J seemed to enjoy the day outside as much as Hub and I enjoyed the nearly obscene people-watching. Apparently, when it comes to shorts, "high waisted" also means "camel toe." I just need to say this. . .
When your child is capable of walking long distances while easily "keeping up" with the adults in your group, s/he probably doesn't belong in a stroller. At all.
This is doubly so when your child's legs are so long that their feet constantly drag under the front wheels. You can't even be mad at your kid for this. It's not like they ran over something and stopped the flow of traffic. No. YOU ran over your kid. Ugh.
Reconsider your use of a stroller. You look as suspect as those parents who tell themselves that "it's a backpack" rather than a leash attached to shoulder straps. Really.
Meanwhile, I am not an innocent of stupidity. The Hub and I are completely sunburned. I'm talking about my hair-part, face, forearms (GREAT start to this year's farmer tan!), and the backs of my legs. Basically, I look like the new girl at the make-up counter got at me with a handful of blusher, I am a married Indian woman with a Sindoor (go "google" it, lazy-pants!), with 3/4 red gloves on my arms, and some really ill-fitting leg-warmers. Hooray. So much for leading by example.
AND TIME RESETS ITSELF.
It is official. Our home version of the factory floor safety board has been reset. Again.
This morning, I heard my lovely son talking to himself and peeked my head in the door to see just the top of his beautifully hairy head cresting up to see me. As I got closer, I reached out to his adorable smile and then recoiled in terror. The smell was secondary to the mustard colored stain next to my baby. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was a larger stain UNDER my child as well as ON his light blue and white striped onesie.
Counter is reset. Again.
This morning, I heard my lovely son talking to himself and peeked my head in the door to see just the top of his beautifully hairy head cresting up to see me. As I got closer, I reached out to his adorable smile and then recoiled in terror. The smell was secondary to the mustard colored stain next to my baby. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was a larger stain UNDER my child as well as ON his light blue and white striped onesie.
Counter is reset. Again.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
DISTURBING RITUAL
We have a system. In the morning, a final feeding takes place. As our child talks himself into awareness, the Hub gets up and brings him to me in bed. There, I give him the last direct-from-the-source nourishment until after work hours. This morning, we heard the man-child stir and begin to talk his five month old gibberish around 545AM.
As the ritual runs, the Hub got up to procure a baby for the feast. But, he didn't return. In fact, the happy talking turned to cries of frustration. Have you heard a hungry baby cry with a nipple nary in sight? Frustration.
Just as I was about to flip the blankets off and rush into the baby's room my Hub appeared in the dark doorway. I could just make out his outline holding what looked to be a very tan and naked child in a diaper.
Cautiously, I whispered, "what happened?"
The quiet response, as my Hub continued to hold our baby delicately but also as if in sacrifice to some dark Goddess of Bowel, was, "there is shit. Everywhere. Shit. It is the worst blowout. Ever. Shit. All over the crib sheet. Shit. Oh, the shit."
Motherhood has apparently changed nothing about my personality. I rolled over and lifted the blankets for baby insertion, boob still hanging out ready for action, and said, "if you got all of the shit off of him, lay him down and I will feed him before I leave for work."
Ritual. It is a good thing.
On an aside. . . Baby wipes are great for removing shit from a kid - once you have wiped it dry. Do you understand, people? There is no wiping shit, which is made from some illogical wetness, too, with a wet wipe. If the wipe is too wet, you just manage to make a shit paste and spread it more evenly all over your child, rather than lifting the offending substance away as planned. Live, shit, and learn.
Live. Shit. And learn.
As the ritual runs, the Hub got up to procure a baby for the feast. But, he didn't return. In fact, the happy talking turned to cries of frustration. Have you heard a hungry baby cry with a nipple nary in sight? Frustration.
Just as I was about to flip the blankets off and rush into the baby's room my Hub appeared in the dark doorway. I could just make out his outline holding what looked to be a very tan and naked child in a diaper.
Cautiously, I whispered, "what happened?"
The quiet response, as my Hub continued to hold our baby delicately but also as if in sacrifice to some dark Goddess of Bowel, was, "there is shit. Everywhere. Shit. It is the worst blowout. Ever. Shit. All over the crib sheet. Shit. Oh, the shit."
Motherhood has apparently changed nothing about my personality. I rolled over and lifted the blankets for baby insertion, boob still hanging out ready for action, and said, "if you got all of the shit off of him, lay him down and I will feed him before I leave for work."
Ritual. It is a good thing.
On an aside. . . Baby wipes are great for removing shit from a kid - once you have wiped it dry. Do you understand, people? There is no wiping shit, which is made from some illogical wetness, too, with a wet wipe. If the wipe is too wet, you just manage to make a shit paste and spread it more evenly all over your child, rather than lifting the offending substance away as planned. Live, shit, and learn.
Live. Shit. And learn.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
BONUS ROUND.
I guess you are wondering what is with the sudden spurt in posting. I promised to get back to blogging. And, though I know very few of you well enough to be held accountable, I will keep that promise.
While my hands have been kept too busy to type, I haven't lost track of a million things that I want to tell you. All of the shit that happens when you become unpregnant, stuff that happens when you have a Hub, a baby boy, a Miniature Schnauzer, and a cast of balls-to-the-wall friends and family, and you go back to work. . . It all makes for good story telling.
I'm sure you can guess that the focus of this blog won't be about pregnancy anymore. . . But, I'm pretty sure you are tired of that anyway. Two years of bitching and moaning doesn't make for good entertainment. Though, I'm not sure you came here for the laughs.
For now, welcome back to my life. I'm getting back to it and am happy to have you along for the ride.
While my hands have been kept too busy to type, I haven't lost track of a million things that I want to tell you. All of the shit that happens when you become unpregnant, stuff that happens when you have a Hub, a baby boy, a Miniature Schnauzer, and a cast of balls-to-the-wall friends and family, and you go back to work. . . It all makes for good story telling.
I'm sure you can guess that the focus of this blog won't be about pregnancy anymore. . . But, I'm pretty sure you are tired of that anyway. Two years of bitching and moaning doesn't make for good entertainment. Though, I'm not sure you came here for the laughs.
For now, welcome back to my life. I'm getting back to it and am happy to have you along for the ride.
FLUSHING MY PIPES
I bet you think you know me. You are wrong. This post isn't about poop. Nyah!
During pregnancy, all of my luxurious Asian hair grew longer and thicker every day. Two months after dropping my lovely load (I just had to sneak in a shit joke, right?) my hair started falling out like gangbusters.
I'm not talking about a few hairs here and there. I'm talking about giant handfuls and clumps of make-a-new-me amounts of hair. In the shower? I think it came out easier with conditioner. One night, it was so bad that I called the Hub into the bathroom to help gauge just how serious the hair loss had become. We ranked my affliction somewhere between obese Himalayan cat at the beginning of summer and chemotherapy. Yes. I just wrote that. And, it was.
So much shedding that I cleaned out my bathtub drain with one of these
several times. More impressive was the yield. We're talking about handfuls of knotted, mystery gunk filled, how the hell did water pass this shit, wads of hair that seemed to stretch on for days. I think I pulled some of those clumps back from the sewer main. Across the street.
Not only was my hair falling out in clumps, it was doing so UP FRONT, people! Suddenly, I knew the plight of every receding hairline! Ugh.
Google does wonders to calm you. . . If you read the right stuff. The right stuff in this case being: hair fall (there is a janky shampoo commercial out about this) ceases during pregnancy, often because a body expends energy on something else (like making a human) and can't waste it on regrowing hairs that naturally fall out. So, when you finally get back to normal, and are unpregnant, you body has some catching up to do (did we already discuss bleeding for weeks?). According to the intarwebz, normal hair growth and loss will return by the 12t month. That is a year. That is a long time to wait.
Lucky for me that the major loss has slowed and I am back to cleaning the air return registers only once a week. However, all of those hairs that fell out in groups are now growing back in. Let's just say that in a few months, I am going to look like a crackhead cut my bangs. Until then, I look like I have spiked fringe above my temples.
Ladies, remember to clean your drains. Your family will appreciate it.
During pregnancy, all of my luxurious Asian hair grew longer and thicker every day. Two months after dropping my lovely load (I just had to sneak in a shit joke, right?) my hair started falling out like gangbusters.
I'm not talking about a few hairs here and there. I'm talking about giant handfuls and clumps of make-a-new-me amounts of hair. In the shower? I think it came out easier with conditioner. One night, it was so bad that I called the Hub into the bathroom to help gauge just how serious the hair loss had become. We ranked my affliction somewhere between obese Himalayan cat at the beginning of summer and chemotherapy. Yes. I just wrote that. And, it was.
So much shedding that I cleaned out my bathtub drain with one of these
Not only was my hair falling out in clumps, it was doing so UP FRONT, people! Suddenly, I knew the plight of every receding hairline! Ugh.
Google does wonders to calm you. . . If you read the right stuff. The right stuff in this case being: hair fall (there is a janky shampoo commercial out about this) ceases during pregnancy, often because a body expends energy on something else (like making a human) and can't waste it on regrowing hairs that naturally fall out. So, when you finally get back to normal, and are unpregnant, you body has some catching up to do (did we already discuss bleeding for weeks?). According to the intarwebz, normal hair growth and loss will return by the 12t month. That is a year. That is a long time to wait.
Lucky for me that the major loss has slowed and I am back to cleaning the air return registers only once a week. However, all of those hairs that fell out in groups are now growing back in. Let's just say that in a few months, I am going to look like a crackhead cut my bangs. Until then, I look like I have spiked fringe above my temples.
Ladies, remember to clean your drains. Your family will appreciate it.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
CLUSTER (*@^$!!
Despite the fact that my child was born at a hefty 10lbs+, he is still an infant and prone to endure infantile things. Like growth spurts. What most folks don't know is that growth spurts bring with them an enormous need for additional food. When that food is produced by Mom, there are long days and nights with no sleep.
J is in his second round of Cluster Feedings. (Dun, Dun, DUN!) The first time around nearly killed my nipples (We will discuss this at length in a future post. All you ever want to know about nipple care will be addressed! Yay!) Now that we are suffering this parental nightmare again, I am pretty sure that my child with the man-sized hands and feet is going to start walking soon. College anyone?
Are you questioning my melodrama? Often, I will begin feeding with one boob. Then, after 15 to 20 minutes (I let him "milk" it) I will switch to the other. My starving child will hungrily suck down everything. And then, demand to return to the first boob to root around for more. This goes on for HOURS. Sometimes, he will fall asleep momentarily. Sometimes, I will, too. Not long enough, however, to get rested.
While I dislike the idea of supplementing with formula (GASP!) I am completely willing to do it - if only to get a little bit of sleep. Constant feedings annihilate my ability to pump excess. In essence, there is NO excess. (We blew through the breast milk bottles that I had accumulated in just the first day of this terror.) Therefore, the only way for the Hub to assist with a feed is to mix up a lovely batch of formula. We don't replace breast milk with formula all day long. Once or twice is all I need to get just a little shut eye.
Oddly, even with the above argument sounding logical and true, the scenario is the perfect storm for what I call the Guilt Formula. . . (I know. I'm SO pun-ny!) so I have to take it a bit further.
I have to give my baby a bottle of formula every now and then so that I can remain somewhat physically (and mentally) stable. With just a little bit of rest, I can pump an extra bottle of breast milk for reserve and hopefully eliminate the formula need altogether. With just a little bit of rest, I am able to breast feed for hours on end without passing out and crushing my child. (Yeah. That's a little extreme, but seriously, worst case scenario, people!) So, really, in order to get through this growth spurt, I think a couple bottles of the Devil are A - Okay. (Not really, but it is a plan. . . and with so little sleep, it's the best one I have!)
J is in his second round of Cluster Feedings. (Dun, Dun, DUN!) The first time around nearly killed my nipples (We will discuss this at length in a future post. All you ever want to know about nipple care will be addressed! Yay!) Now that we are suffering this parental nightmare again, I am pretty sure that my child with the man-sized hands and feet is going to start walking soon. College anyone?
Are you questioning my melodrama? Often, I will begin feeding with one boob. Then, after 15 to 20 minutes (I let him "milk" it) I will switch to the other. My starving child will hungrily suck down everything. And then, demand to return to the first boob to root around for more. This goes on for HOURS. Sometimes, he will fall asleep momentarily. Sometimes, I will, too. Not long enough, however, to get rested.
While I dislike the idea of supplementing with formula (GASP!) I am completely willing to do it - if only to get a little bit of sleep. Constant feedings annihilate my ability to pump excess. In essence, there is NO excess. (We blew through the breast milk bottles that I had accumulated in just the first day of this terror.) Therefore, the only way for the Hub to assist with a feed is to mix up a lovely batch of formula. We don't replace breast milk with formula all day long. Once or twice is all I need to get just a little shut eye.
Oddly, even with the above argument sounding logical and true, the scenario is the perfect storm for what I call the Guilt Formula. . . (I know. I'm SO pun-ny!) so I have to take it a bit further.
I have to give my baby a bottle of formula every now and then so that I can remain somewhat physically (and mentally) stable. With just a little bit of rest, I can pump an extra bottle of breast milk for reserve and hopefully eliminate the formula need altogether. With just a little bit of rest, I am able to breast feed for hours on end without passing out and crushing my child. (Yeah. That's a little extreme, but seriously, worst case scenario, people!) So, really, in order to get through this growth spurt, I think a couple bottles of the Devil are A - Okay. (Not really, but it is a plan. . . and with so little sleep, it's the best one I have!)
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
REAL TALK.
If you have been coming around for any length of time, you probably already know that I tend not to pull my punches. I appreciate straight talk - so it is what I dish out. Thanks for sticking it out. Really.
My child is now four weeks old and I can tell you that every minute with him has not been easy. From dealing with cluster feedings to changing what feels like 8,000 dirty diapers, I dare any new mother to say that it has been an pure pleasure. Go ahead. I'll wait while you lie to the rest of us.
I would like to present the following "shit mothers never talk about" in honor of all of the liars out there.
* I wasn't in love with my child from the moment he was born. I mean. . I loved him, but I wasn't enamored with him. You can blame the C-Section for the lack of endorphins - or other chemical release that trigger post-natal euphoria. We can even discuss the loss of my first child shortly after her birth. Whatever you think, I'm telling you I wasn't completely head over heels from the first moment of my child's life. And, I didn't feel guilty about it. And, from what I'm told, there are others - who haven't suffered a loss and who didn't have a C-Section. After three weeks, however, I found that all-consuming love. And, it is good.
* Often, a woman will try to tell me that I need to have another child so that this one "doesn't grow up alone." We will get into my retorts later, but for now, I want to say that often, these women justify their argument by saying that I will "forget all of the hardship and late night feedings and all of that." I'm pretty sure I won't forget living in bed for 11 weeks. I'm also pretty sure that my nipples will never forget the first days when my body stopped producing milk. Yes. I know that motherhood can be a tantamount experience, but I'm pretty sure that I won't be forgetting what I went through. Any idiot would be remiss to discard this pregnancy experience and hop into another. Argument = invalid.
* What is the worst thing that I have heard from mothers? "My body just loves being pregnant. I never felt better than when I was pregnant. . " Really? Perhaps they just "forgot." Or, they are lying. Does anyone really have the perfect pregnancy? You're telling me you didn't have morning sickness, hurty tits, tender gums, exhaustion, sore pelvis, stretch marks, wonky back, swollen feet, swollen hands, carpal tunnel, odd body hair, hair that fell out, brittle nails, yeast infections, bladder infections, gestational diabetes, anemia. . . really? Nothing? Okay. I'll take it. So, you had the perfect pregnancy. How about you learn some compassion and stop underhandedly bragging? If pregnancy is so great for you, want to carry mine?
* When I was still pregnant, I was concerned that I wouldn't be able to love this child as much as I loved my first. I talked with a friend of mine who has two living children and she responded that she had the same fear when she was pregnant with #2. She even spoke with her friends about the fear and they all responded negatively - "No, that never even crossed my mind. . . " or "Never!" Let's be honest here, people. It is normal to fear being able to love another person with the same gusto as the original. This goes for everyone - not just parents of a lost child. It is okay to have this fear! I was crying on the operating table before they cut into me and asking my husband if we would be able to love our son as much as we loved our daughter. Talk about a room-killer!
I suppose what I am trying to say with all of these things is that as a woman, I want to be supportive of my fellow mothers to be. We will never be perfect mothers. Just like we will never be perfect people. There is no right answer. It is okay to feel imperfect. It is okay to question ourselves. We should be okay to talk about these things. . . to have REAL TALK!
My child is now four weeks old and I can tell you that every minute with him has not been easy. From dealing with cluster feedings to changing what feels like 8,000 dirty diapers, I dare any new mother to say that it has been an pure pleasure. Go ahead. I'll wait while you lie to the rest of us.
I would like to present the following "shit mothers never talk about" in honor of all of the liars out there.
* I wasn't in love with my child from the moment he was born. I mean. . I loved him, but I wasn't enamored with him. You can blame the C-Section for the lack of endorphins - or other chemical release that trigger post-natal euphoria. We can even discuss the loss of my first child shortly after her birth. Whatever you think, I'm telling you I wasn't completely head over heels from the first moment of my child's life. And, I didn't feel guilty about it. And, from what I'm told, there are others - who haven't suffered a loss and who didn't have a C-Section. After three weeks, however, I found that all-consuming love. And, it is good.
* Often, a woman will try to tell me that I need to have another child so that this one "doesn't grow up alone." We will get into my retorts later, but for now, I want to say that often, these women justify their argument by saying that I will "forget all of the hardship and late night feedings and all of that." I'm pretty sure I won't forget living in bed for 11 weeks. I'm also pretty sure that my nipples will never forget the first days when my body stopped producing milk. Yes. I know that motherhood can be a tantamount experience, but I'm pretty sure that I won't be forgetting what I went through. Any idiot would be remiss to discard this pregnancy experience and hop into another. Argument = invalid.
* What is the worst thing that I have heard from mothers? "My body just loves being pregnant. I never felt better than when I was pregnant. . " Really? Perhaps they just "forgot." Or, they are lying. Does anyone really have the perfect pregnancy? You're telling me you didn't have morning sickness, hurty tits, tender gums, exhaustion, sore pelvis, stretch marks, wonky back, swollen feet, swollen hands, carpal tunnel, odd body hair, hair that fell out, brittle nails, yeast infections, bladder infections, gestational diabetes, anemia. . . really? Nothing? Okay. I'll take it. So, you had the perfect pregnancy. How about you learn some compassion and stop underhandedly bragging? If pregnancy is so great for you, want to carry mine?
* When I was still pregnant, I was concerned that I wouldn't be able to love this child as much as I loved my first. I talked with a friend of mine who has two living children and she responded that she had the same fear when she was pregnant with #2. She even spoke with her friends about the fear and they all responded negatively - "No, that never even crossed my mind. . . " or "Never!" Let's be honest here, people. It is normal to fear being able to love another person with the same gusto as the original. This goes for everyone - not just parents of a lost child. It is okay to have this fear! I was crying on the operating table before they cut into me and asking my husband if we would be able to love our son as much as we loved our daughter. Talk about a room-killer!
I suppose what I am trying to say with all of these things is that as a woman, I want to be supportive of my fellow mothers to be. We will never be perfect mothers. Just like we will never be perfect people. There is no right answer. It is okay to feel imperfect. It is okay to question ourselves. We should be okay to talk about these things. . . to have REAL TALK!
Sunday, December 15, 2013
GETTING INTO THE FLOW OF THINGS.
Let's talk about something gross (because the rest of this blog has been "gross-free", right?)
Lochia. Because you didn't really miss your period. You just saved it up all year for now. And Mother Nature is pissed. So pissed, in fact, that mesh panties and ginormous pads of mattress proportions are necessary.
My child is four weeks old. This means that I have been bleeding for. . . (yup, you guessed it) . . four weeks. And, it ain't all sunshine and roses.
In the beginning, there were chicken livers. Yeah. Think about that. Chicken livers of my own body's making. And they were escaping. ESCAPING.
There were times when I changed my hospital pad (Think 14" x 20" - or some other enormous measurement) 10 times a day just to keep clean. Because, let me tell you, that little squirt bottle does wonders for cleansing - but, only while it's squirting.
About a week in, I downgraded to an ultra thin overnight pad with wings. I'm getting as specific as I can without naming brands. The Hub was sent on a mission one night to procure some of these and in an effort to NOT have to return to the store for them, bought two jumbo packs and managed to amuse the cashier and the bagger girl. That's funnier to me than the Chicken Livers running for their lives through my vagina. (Throwback!)
In the beginning, the bright redness is daunting. Then, it tones down to darker red. . . to rust. . . to brown. Eventually, it's just darker discharge. Then, it ceases to exist. Eventually.
With my first pregnancy, I had a full six weeks of this shit. With any luck, this time is about over. But, as your OB may likely tell you, it may stop and then start again. Nice. Reliable body.
Lochia. Because you didn't really miss your period. You just saved it up all year for now. And Mother Nature is pissed. So pissed, in fact, that mesh panties and ginormous pads of mattress proportions are necessary.
My child is four weeks old. This means that I have been bleeding for. . . (yup, you guessed it) . . four weeks. And, it ain't all sunshine and roses.
In the beginning, there were chicken livers. Yeah. Think about that. Chicken livers of my own body's making. And they were escaping. ESCAPING.
There were times when I changed my hospital pad (Think 14" x 20" - or some other enormous measurement) 10 times a day just to keep clean. Because, let me tell you, that little squirt bottle does wonders for cleansing - but, only while it's squirting.
About a week in, I downgraded to an ultra thin overnight pad with wings. I'm getting as specific as I can without naming brands. The Hub was sent on a mission one night to procure some of these and in an effort to NOT have to return to the store for them, bought two jumbo packs and managed to amuse the cashier and the bagger girl. That's funnier to me than the Chicken Livers running for their lives through my vagina. (Throwback!)
In the beginning, the bright redness is daunting. Then, it tones down to darker red. . . to rust. . . to brown. Eventually, it's just darker discharge. Then, it ceases to exist. Eventually.
With my first pregnancy, I had a full six weeks of this shit. With any luck, this time is about over. But, as your OB may likely tell you, it may stop and then start again. Nice. Reliable body.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
RANDOM MEMORIES.
I sat up in bed when I remembered this little gem from the OR:
Me (still behind the curtain): Is something burning?
Doctors: - - -
Me: Oh. It's me, isn't it?
Doctors: - - -
Me: You are cauterizing something, right?
Yeah. That isn't a good smell. My own burning flesh. I can't wait to bring this up in my follow-up appointment on Monday.
Me (still behind the curtain): Is something burning?
Doctors: - - -
Me: Oh. It's me, isn't it?
Doctors: - - -
Me: You are cauterizing something, right?
Yeah. That isn't a good smell. My own burning flesh. I can't wait to bring this up in my follow-up appointment on Monday.
CATASTROPHE ON THE FRONT END.
Someone forgot to tell me that when you have been on Pitocin for 30 hours, you will swell. I'm not just talking about having to remove your wedding band (though, for me, this occurred early on in the pregnancy.) I'm talking about looking like I was wearing a fat suit that I couldn't take off for six days. Like "can't I just slit my skin open to relieve some of this pressure?" Or, "I think I saw this episode of The Half Ton Woman on TV!"
My feet, legs and hips were swollen to proportions twice their normal size! I won't even get into the puffy space below my bellybutton. . .
The worst part of this, however, wasn't the humongous feeling or even the pain associated with the skin tightening. . . it was the fact that my milk wasn't coming in. The goods that existed prior to labor and shortly after were all dried up! My child was going to starve, people!
So, while we waited, we supplemented with formula. I think I just heard 1,000,000 Leche League Moms groan and gasp! Seriously, I had NO milk. Nobody warned us of this - they just kept telling me that it was fine and that my child wasn't starving. Really? How many days without sustenance can a newborn go? Five? Six? Right.
It was actually the pediatrician that gave the best advice. We saw him the Saturday after birth (on Monday.) He told me that the pump wasn't going to be able to reap milk like the baby, so not to rely on what the pump was able to get. Instead, continue to let the baby attempt to feed at the breast and then supplement with formula after. He was sure that with the recession of swelling, my milk would indeed come in. And, he was right.
By the next Monday (1 week out, for those of you playing along at home), I was able to feed more from the breast and supplement less. The day after that, I was able to eliminate the formula completely. I am proud to say that we have been a Mom's Diner household ever since. I'm even pumping excess so that the Hub can bond during feeding.
So. . to those of you who found this post because your milk has yet to come in - do not get discouraged. The drugs will wear off for you as well and your body will return to responding in kind. Don't listen to the hype about nipple confusion, formula being the Devil, or anything anyone else has to say. Your kid will eat at Mom's when s/he can and until then, you will do the best that you can with what you have. .
In the words of one of my favorite shower gifts (Thanks, Aunt Tatie!): "My Mom Doesn't Want Your Advice"
My feet, legs and hips were swollen to proportions twice their normal size! I won't even get into the puffy space below my bellybutton. . .
The worst part of this, however, wasn't the humongous feeling or even the pain associated with the skin tightening. . . it was the fact that my milk wasn't coming in. The goods that existed prior to labor and shortly after were all dried up! My child was going to starve, people!
So, while we waited, we supplemented with formula. I think I just heard 1,000,000 Leche League Moms groan and gasp! Seriously, I had NO milk. Nobody warned us of this - they just kept telling me that it was fine and that my child wasn't starving. Really? How many days without sustenance can a newborn go? Five? Six? Right.
It was actually the pediatrician that gave the best advice. We saw him the Saturday after birth (on Monday.) He told me that the pump wasn't going to be able to reap milk like the baby, so not to rely on what the pump was able to get. Instead, continue to let the baby attempt to feed at the breast and then supplement with formula after. He was sure that with the recession of swelling, my milk would indeed come in. And, he was right.
By the next Monday (1 week out, for those of you playing along at home), I was able to feed more from the breast and supplement less. The day after that, I was able to eliminate the formula completely. I am proud to say that we have been a Mom's Diner household ever since. I'm even pumping excess so that the Hub can bond during feeding.
So. . to those of you who found this post because your milk has yet to come in - do not get discouraged. The drugs will wear off for you as well and your body will return to responding in kind. Don't listen to the hype about nipple confusion, formula being the Devil, or anything anyone else has to say. Your kid will eat at Mom's when s/he can and until then, you will do the best that you can with what you have. .
In the words of one of my favorite shower gifts (Thanks, Aunt Tatie!): "My Mom Doesn't Want Your Advice"
Friday, November 29, 2013
THE BIRTH STORY.
At our final OB appointment, on November 11th, it became apparent that everyone, including our OB, was increasingly concerned with the size of our baby. My belly had increased from "cute" to "holyshit,motherfucker!" and I was suffering from a separated pubic bone (read: PAIN.) So, it was decided that I would be induced on Sunday November 17th.
At 4am that Sunday, I rose and collected my belongings. The Hub and I made our way to the hospital and checked-in. It took a while, but I was eventually hooked up to monitors and plugged into a giant IV of Pitocin. For those of you unawares, this is the hellish liquid that induces labor. It is a hormone that your body makes (Oxytocin) for such an occasion. Typically, they will increase your "units" by one every hour - up to 20 until you deliver (We'll get to this. . .)
Through the afternoon, I managed to dilate from my steady 4cm to 5cm. In the early evening, I made it another half a centimeter before my pubic pain got so bad that I asked for the epidural. Let me explain something, people. My birth plan (which means nothing in the face of adversity) was to go natural. I was going to have a quick delivery with no issue. Really. My pain tolerance is enormous and I can breathe through stress with the best of them. So, believe me when I tell you that asking for the epidural was a last resort. I was sitting on a birthing ball, trying to coax my junk open just a little further, leaking fluid ALL OVER THE FLOOR. . . and I felt like my pubic bone was cracked down the middle and ripping outwards. Pleasant picture.
Over night, the epidural became my nightmare. I had searing pins and needles combined in a complete inability to move my legs on my own. The Hub rang for the nurse an I writhed around trying to feel anything but pain in my legs and feet. The anesthesiologist came quickly and temporarily turned off the epidural pump. It was theorized that a pre-bedtime bolus bump of medicine caused my reaction - so we would have to be extra careful in the future (we'll get to this, and it ain't gonna be pretty.)
The next day, Monday November 18th, I was still just at 6cm. A call to my OB yielded quick, but horrific results (more story to come). Since I was already at 20 units of Pitocin per hour, I was bumped up to 30. Seriously. We jumped to 30. But, at noon, I was completely dilated, contracting, and ready to birth!
Before I knew it, I had been pushing for two and a half hours! The time flies when you are focused. I credit the nurse, my Hub, and our persistence for the quiet room and calm surroundings. The Hub was able to lean in an see the hair on our baby's head! The nurse, however, was able to lean in and see that there was no way our broad little man was going to come out the old fashioned way.
Our OB arrived and very frankly informed me that the baby wasn't physically able to move past my pelvis. Despite our desire to have a natural vaginal birth, we would need to go to the OR for a C Section.
Here is where the fun comes back from the evenings epidural crazy. . .
The anesthesiologists did not want to put my body back into the awful state of the night before, so they proceeded as slowly as they could with the medicine. I was rolled into the OR and a tent was constructed in front of me to block the shock inducing sights that no woman should ever see while she is experiencing it.
There was some pretty intense tugging feeling and then I heard my baby cry. The Hub hopped up and the nurse brought the baby for tests and measures. 21.5" long and 10lbs5oz. I gave birth to two babies' worth of baby. A true man child.
Of course, nothing can be easy. . . about the time the pain came rushing back, I spoke out loud to my OB through the curtain, "whatever you are doing right now. . . FUCKING hurts." He responded, "where is it hurting, Suzi?" I calmly directed him to my lower right abdomen. . and then it seemed like everyone in the OR started moving VERY quickly. I guess I got it right. They were working on sewing me back together when the anesthesia wore off. My anesthesiologist appeared over my left shoulder and pumped something cool into my epidural. Crisis averted.
The baby scored a perfect 10 on his APGAR - partially due to the fact that he wasn't just pink and wriggly at birth but RED. Bright screaming red. And healthy. Mama was proud. And then, he latched on like a pro. We will discuss more about breast feeding in later posts. .
It has been 11 days and we are home. And adjusting. Clearly, my blogging has been affected (it has taken me four hours to type this.) But, I will carve out more time in the future.
At 4am that Sunday, I rose and collected my belongings. The Hub and I made our way to the hospital and checked-in. It took a while, but I was eventually hooked up to monitors and plugged into a giant IV of Pitocin. For those of you unawares, this is the hellish liquid that induces labor. It is a hormone that your body makes (Oxytocin) for such an occasion. Typically, they will increase your "units" by one every hour - up to 20 until you deliver (We'll get to this. . .)
Through the afternoon, I managed to dilate from my steady 4cm to 5cm. In the early evening, I made it another half a centimeter before my pubic pain got so bad that I asked for the epidural. Let me explain something, people. My birth plan (which means nothing in the face of adversity) was to go natural. I was going to have a quick delivery with no issue. Really. My pain tolerance is enormous and I can breathe through stress with the best of them. So, believe me when I tell you that asking for the epidural was a last resort. I was sitting on a birthing ball, trying to coax my junk open just a little further, leaking fluid ALL OVER THE FLOOR. . . and I felt like my pubic bone was cracked down the middle and ripping outwards. Pleasant picture.
Over night, the epidural became my nightmare. I had searing pins and needles combined in a complete inability to move my legs on my own. The Hub rang for the nurse an I writhed around trying to feel anything but pain in my legs and feet. The anesthesiologist came quickly and temporarily turned off the epidural pump. It was theorized that a pre-bedtime bolus bump of medicine caused my reaction - so we would have to be extra careful in the future (we'll get to this, and it ain't gonna be pretty.)
The next day, Monday November 18th, I was still just at 6cm. A call to my OB yielded quick, but horrific results (more story to come). Since I was already at 20 units of Pitocin per hour, I was bumped up to 30. Seriously. We jumped to 30. But, at noon, I was completely dilated, contracting, and ready to birth!
Before I knew it, I had been pushing for two and a half hours! The time flies when you are focused. I credit the nurse, my Hub, and our persistence for the quiet room and calm surroundings. The Hub was able to lean in an see the hair on our baby's head! The nurse, however, was able to lean in and see that there was no way our broad little man was going to come out the old fashioned way.
Our OB arrived and very frankly informed me that the baby wasn't physically able to move past my pelvis. Despite our desire to have a natural vaginal birth, we would need to go to the OR for a C Section.
Here is where the fun comes back from the evenings epidural crazy. . .
The anesthesiologists did not want to put my body back into the awful state of the night before, so they proceeded as slowly as they could with the medicine. I was rolled into the OR and a tent was constructed in front of me to block the shock inducing sights that no woman should ever see while she is experiencing it.
There was some pretty intense tugging feeling and then I heard my baby cry. The Hub hopped up and the nurse brought the baby for tests and measures. 21.5" long and 10lbs5oz. I gave birth to two babies' worth of baby. A true man child.
Of course, nothing can be easy. . . about the time the pain came rushing back, I spoke out loud to my OB through the curtain, "whatever you are doing right now. . . FUCKING hurts." He responded, "where is it hurting, Suzi?" I calmly directed him to my lower right abdomen. . and then it seemed like everyone in the OR started moving VERY quickly. I guess I got it right. They were working on sewing me back together when the anesthesia wore off. My anesthesiologist appeared over my left shoulder and pumped something cool into my epidural. Crisis averted.
The baby scored a perfect 10 on his APGAR - partially due to the fact that he wasn't just pink and wriggly at birth but RED. Bright screaming red. And healthy. Mama was proud. And then, he latched on like a pro. We will discuss more about breast feeding in later posts. .
It has been 11 days and we are home. And adjusting. Clearly, my blogging has been affected (it has taken me four hours to type this.) But, I will carve out more time in the future.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
QUICK UPDATE.
I am enormous and over 38 weeks. My pelvis hurts me. I am still dilated nearly half way, but my cervix is very high. We are playing a nasty waiting game where no one wins.
It is frustrating that we spent the better part of the year working to keep him in and now he refuses to come out.
At some point, when it is not so fresh, I will write about the anxiety and mixed emotions that come with a pregnancy after a loss and a pending arrival. . .
For now, keep us in your thoughts. He can't stay in there forever!
It is frustrating that we spent the better part of the year working to keep him in and now he refuses to come out.
At some point, when it is not so fresh, I will write about the anxiety and mixed emotions that come with a pregnancy after a loss and a pending arrival. . .
For now, keep us in your thoughts. He can't stay in there forever!
Saturday, November 2, 2013
COMPLICATIONS.
Remember that time I was pregnant and fell? Right. That was yesterday.
Today, my ankle looks very similar to normal. . with the exception of a little puff on the inside. It does not, however, feel okay. In fact, it feels like high school. High school was when I vastly injured my ankle (read: it was black. And I'm yellow.) and instead of taking a few weeks off of it (and on crutches), I made my way into another mosh pit. Yeah.
So, I will hobble around today even more than with just a clicky pelvis. I am feeling energized and like I need to accomplish some very important nesting items. .
1. I must complete the winterizing of our home. I need to get a large propane tank converter for my inside-safe propane heater. I must stock up on puppy-safe sidewalk salt. I must track down an ergonomic snow shovel. I think it is important to point out that while the original shovel that my Da bought in 1983 is still functioning and full of nostalgia, it is easier to pick up and throw snow with a bent handle.
2. I must inventory and thin out the herd of food products in my deep freeze. If I do not, there will be nowhere for my milk to live. This will not do. So, in the coming week, we will likely have freezer food for meals. Sodium, what? I think there are some cornish game hens in there that are dying to be trussed.
3. At some point, I will need to sit down and have lunch so that I can relax and take a load off. A really wide load off.
4. The invitations for the baby shower are ready to be mailed. The Hub and I compromised on some "heart seal" forever stamps instead of the Johnny Cash ones that I wanted and the American Flag ones that he wanted. Putting hearts on envelopes is asinine to both of us - so they work.
All of this must be accomplished by 3pm - as that is when we will need to begin the drive to drop off our accomplice MyMandy (did I ever mention that I feel like you can get anywhere in this town in 30 minutes?) and come home to rest up for a family birthday dinner. I think we can manage. . . or at least come close. I'm not sure I can actually get any of the things on my winterizing list - outside of the propane tank converter. . thankfully, I still have a HUGE stockpile of ice scrapers and sub-zero window washer fluid.
Friday, November 1, 2013
CLOSE THOSE EYES!
What's worse than watching a pot to boil?
Having dozens of other people doing it, too.
Meanwhile, I fell today. It was kind of bad. So, now I feel even worse than I did AND people keep calling for "updates"
Therefore, I will no longer respond to inquiries.
Pot watchers.
Having dozens of other people doing it, too.
Meanwhile, I fell today. It was kind of bad. So, now I feel even worse than I did AND people keep calling for "updates"
Therefore, I will no longer respond to inquiries.
Pot watchers.
SEMI PRECIOUS STONES
While I wait. . and wait. . and wait for this baby to make an appearance, I will fill you in on some of the moderate annoyances that have taken over my life. Today, I want to discuss the miracle and wonder that I call Nipple Crystals.
Remember those science experiment packs that your Great Aunt Tillie used to send in the mail when you were a kid? They might contain Sea Monkeys (Brine Shrimp that your Da would later feed to his fish) or an Ant Farm (which would eventually fail and free all detainees.) Then, there was the Grow Your Own Crystal packs. I'm pretty sure colored sugar and string made up the package and you just added water. Remember those brittle little crystals that eventually climbed out of the Tupperware bowl?
These crystals are the same. Except you don't need shit but a lactating boob and some dry air. It's a MIRACLE!
I'm not sure you know this, but there isn't just ONE tiny hole in your nipple. There are crevasses. Take a look one day. You will see what I'm talking about.
When you being to lactate (more prevalent during pregnancy when you were just pregnant), all of the liquid doesn't get sucked out of the nipple. Some of it stays and crystallizes. You probably wouldn't notice except that there is an unsettling feeling of itch (AND SODOM AND GOMORRAH) in your nipples. With a little fidgeting, you will produce a few tiny NIPPLE CRYSTALS. And they will look like they would hurt if stuck in your nipples.
They look a little like ground sea salt. I pretty sure they won't taste like it.
Remember those science experiment packs that your Great Aunt Tillie used to send in the mail when you were a kid? They might contain Sea Monkeys (Brine Shrimp that your Da would later feed to his fish) or an Ant Farm (which would eventually fail and free all detainees.) Then, there was the Grow Your Own Crystal packs. I'm pretty sure colored sugar and string made up the package and you just added water. Remember those brittle little crystals that eventually climbed out of the Tupperware bowl?
These crystals are the same. Except you don't need shit but a lactating boob and some dry air. It's a MIRACLE!
I'm not sure you know this, but there isn't just ONE tiny hole in your nipple. There are crevasses. Take a look one day. You will see what I'm talking about.
When you being to lactate (more prevalent during pregnancy when you were just pregnant), all of the liquid doesn't get sucked out of the nipple. Some of it stays and crystallizes. You probably wouldn't notice except that there is an unsettling feeling of itch (AND SODOM AND GOMORRAH) in your nipples. With a little fidgeting, you will produce a few tiny NIPPLE CRYSTALS. And they will look like they would hurt if stuck in your nipples.
They look a little like ground sea salt. I pretty sure they won't taste like it.
Monday, October 28, 2013
CANT STOP THE TRAIN. . . LET'S DITCH THE STITCH.
This morning, the Hub and I went to the OB. We made a pit stop in with the Ultrasound folks to take some baby measurements. Then, we went to get the cerclage removed.
As of today, our child is measuring enormously. It is likely that we have a 9lb baby. . . Or that the estimate is a pound over. I'm hoping for the latter.
So, let's talk cerclage removal. . .
With a McDonald cerclage, you are sedated when it is put in but it can typically be taken out in the doctor's office. But, it isn't always easy.
My OB had trouble finding the stitch for removal. Therefore, it was a bit pressurized as he was moving the speculum all over the place. . . (Are you sure you can't see my left lung?)
About 10 minutes later, it was removed and proved to be a bigger thing than I imagined. I wish I would have gotten a picture, but the discomfort was enough that I told the OB that I hated him. . . (But, I did not kick him in the face; so, that is a "win")
30 seconds later, I asked him to check me. To all of our surprise, he announced that I was 4 cm dilated. I guess the stitch did its job.
So, we picked up lunch and came home. I have no idea if I am contracting or if I am dilating more. For now, I am waiting for my water to break. Come and wait with me. At the casino. Today feels like my lucky day.
As of today, our child is measuring enormously. It is likely that we have a 9lb baby. . . Or that the estimate is a pound over. I'm hoping for the latter.
So, let's talk cerclage removal. . .
With a McDonald cerclage, you are sedated when it is put in but it can typically be taken out in the doctor's office. But, it isn't always easy.
My OB had trouble finding the stitch for removal. Therefore, it was a bit pressurized as he was moving the speculum all over the place. . . (Are you sure you can't see my left lung?)
About 10 minutes later, it was removed and proved to be a bigger thing than I imagined. I wish I would have gotten a picture, but the discomfort was enough that I told the OB that I hated him. . . (But, I did not kick him in the face; so, that is a "win")
30 seconds later, I asked him to check me. To all of our surprise, he announced that I was 4 cm dilated. I guess the stitch did its job.
So, we picked up lunch and came home. I have no idea if I am contracting or if I am dilating more. For now, I am waiting for my water to break. Come and wait with me. At the casino. Today feels like my lucky day.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
THIS ISN'T FOR US, IT IS FOR YOU.
I run my life by what I consider to be simple rules. They are gut-based and typically work out for me and those (I care about) around me. I want to share some scenarios with you so that you can make the right moves if confronted with similar situations. .
1. I do not believe that blood = family. This likely has most to do with the fact that I am adopted. But, it goes further. I believe that you choose your family. Or, at least, you should. To me, family is love. If I don't care about you on that level, then you aren't family to me. Your level of love is technically irrelevant, but I would hope reciprocated.
This all being stated, it is probably obvious to most that my Hub's family isn't necessarily a group of people that I automatically consider family. Sad, but true.
2. Children are a parent's way of disrupting an event and refocusing it on themselves. I am a firm believer that children do not belong at wedding ceremonies. Unconditionally, the parents will sit in close proximity to me and then neglect to get up and walk out when their child starts to fuss. They don't want to miss anything, but are completely disregarding that I might want to actually understood what is happening at the altar. On a smaller level, this also happens in restaurants and public places where a child can be openly disruptive.
Today, the Hub and I attended the wedding shower for one of his cousins. I happen to like her very much and was happy to have been invited. A relative showed with her child. The focus at our table was completely NOT on the bride-to-be. In my opinion, this is bullshit. Leave your fucking kid at home. Seriously. This event isn't about you.
3. Be aware. There are situations in this world where you will not always understand the choices of other people. To quote one of my favorite poems, "Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die"
If someone doesn't want to hold your baby, you should probably back off. This is probably more true when you are trying to force someone who lost their child shortly after birth. As my Hub's mother was insisting that my Hub hold his sister's infant, she kept repeating, "but you need practice. . . " I wanted to calmly respond with "I think the practice we got from holding our first child for two hours while she died was enough to prepare us for our second child." I'm also pretty sure she still wouldn't get it. None of them will. Ever. (Right now, at midnight, I am considering writing her an email. . so that I don't rip her a new asshole when I can no longer hold all of this in.)
But, it's not just us. The family continued to criticize another family member, who I happen to really like, for not wanting to hold the same child. I wanted to blurt out, "why would she want to hold a kid that she doesn't give two shits about?" Yeah. That didn't get to happen either.
Instead, I took it out on the Hub as we drove away. . . especially loud, after this next thing happened. . .
4. You do NOT get to choose to know when MY child is on his way into the world. In fact, if you get a call at all, you should be grateful. If I have to hear about your direction to call when labor begins every single fucking time I have to suffer your company, you won't get a fucking call at all. Seriously.
This, of course, is also akin to. .
5. If you have not been told about a baby registry, do not google it and then proceed to purchase items from it. I won't go into more specifics, but I will say that I am so irate over this and other things above that I will be spending the holidays (ALL OF THEM) with MY family and I will be taking my child with me. So far, the Hub is understanding and just biding time until WWIII begins.
Yeah. This has been one ugly rant. But, I think you should know these things. . so that you don't fuck up with someone like me.
1. I do not believe that blood = family. This likely has most to do with the fact that I am adopted. But, it goes further. I believe that you choose your family. Or, at least, you should. To me, family is love. If I don't care about you on that level, then you aren't family to me. Your level of love is technically irrelevant, but I would hope reciprocated.
This all being stated, it is probably obvious to most that my Hub's family isn't necessarily a group of people that I automatically consider family. Sad, but true.
2. Children are a parent's way of disrupting an event and refocusing it on themselves. I am a firm believer that children do not belong at wedding ceremonies. Unconditionally, the parents will sit in close proximity to me and then neglect to get up and walk out when their child starts to fuss. They don't want to miss anything, but are completely disregarding that I might want to actually understood what is happening at the altar. On a smaller level, this also happens in restaurants and public places where a child can be openly disruptive.
Today, the Hub and I attended the wedding shower for one of his cousins. I happen to like her very much and was happy to have been invited. A relative showed with her child. The focus at our table was completely NOT on the bride-to-be. In my opinion, this is bullshit. Leave your fucking kid at home. Seriously. This event isn't about you.
3. Be aware. There are situations in this world where you will not always understand the choices of other people. To quote one of my favorite poems, "Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die"
If someone doesn't want to hold your baby, you should probably back off. This is probably more true when you are trying to force someone who lost their child shortly after birth. As my Hub's mother was insisting that my Hub hold his sister's infant, she kept repeating, "but you need practice. . . " I wanted to calmly respond with "I think the practice we got from holding our first child for two hours while she died was enough to prepare us for our second child." I'm also pretty sure she still wouldn't get it. None of them will. Ever. (Right now, at midnight, I am considering writing her an email. . so that I don't rip her a new asshole when I can no longer hold all of this in.)
But, it's not just us. The family continued to criticize another family member, who I happen to really like, for not wanting to hold the same child. I wanted to blurt out, "why would she want to hold a kid that she doesn't give two shits about?" Yeah. That didn't get to happen either.
Instead, I took it out on the Hub as we drove away. . . especially loud, after this next thing happened. . .
4. You do NOT get to choose to know when MY child is on his way into the world. In fact, if you get a call at all, you should be grateful. If I have to hear about your direction to call when labor begins every single fucking time I have to suffer your company, you won't get a fucking call at all. Seriously.
This, of course, is also akin to. .
5. If you have not been told about a baby registry, do not google it and then proceed to purchase items from it. I won't go into more specifics, but I will say that I am so irate over this and other things above that I will be spending the holidays (ALL OF THEM) with MY family and I will be taking my child with me. So far, the Hub is understanding and just biding time until WWIII begins.
Yeah. This has been one ugly rant. But, I think you should know these things. . so that you don't fuck up with someone like me.
Monday, October 21, 2013
CONTRACTIONS.
I know a guy. He lives in Australia now, but he used to work at a bar with me. He is originally from Wisconsin. That's pronounced Wi-Scon-sin, for those of you who have never gone North. I loved listening to him talk. . likely because I spent some time "up there."
One thing in particular that dazzled me was the way that he pronounced his contractions.
Should + Not = Shouldn't (pronounced: Shunt)
Would + Not = Wouldn't (pronounced: Wunt)
. . . I asked him one day how he pronounced "couldn't" - this didn't end well.
But. . back to me.
My contractions are two to three minutes apart and straining on my cervix.
I have been monitoring them and they haven't increased in duration, frequency, or intensity.
My OB is aware.
I blame my return to work and the stress caused by trying to get my security clearance "turned back on."
I hope you are all having such a great day that you couldn't ask for better. =)
One thing in particular that dazzled me was the way that he pronounced his contractions.
Should + Not = Shouldn't (pronounced: Shunt)
Would + Not = Wouldn't (pronounced: Wunt)
. . . I asked him one day how he pronounced "couldn't" - this didn't end well.
But. . back to me.
My contractions are two to three minutes apart and straining on my cervix.
I have been monitoring them and they haven't increased in duration, frequency, or intensity.
My OB is aware.
I blame my return to work and the stress caused by trying to get my security clearance "turned back on."
I hope you are all having such a great day that you couldn't ask for better. =)
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